Miles Apart
by r4ven3
Summary: This is a hidden scene, set some time early in 5.04, before Havensworth, and well before Cotterdam. I have written this story before, but during different times in Spooks, so it's not entirely original. Ruth contemplates why she turned Harry down when he asked her out the second time. One shot.


Ruth's feet have only just touched the pavement when it hits her. And it hits her like the thunderbolt it is. She turns and watches as the bus pulls away from the kerb to trundle on its way, spilling its passengers at regular intervals, as they head home at the end of another working day.

Ruth waits until the bus disappears from view, swallowed by the night …... and then she smiles.

Smiling as she walks the last few hundred yards to her house is not part of her normal nightly routine. She's always relieved when the day is over, and that she can relax for a few hours before she heads off to bed, so that she can do it all again the next day. Added to her relief is a pang of sadness ….. longing …... and yes, regret, that another day on the Grid has passed, and she and Harry are still miles apart.

And it's all her fault.

She and Harry still work well together. They always have. It's as though they were born to work together …... just not to be anything more. That's what she's believed, ever since they'd had dinner together, and the evening had gone swimmingly. That night, she'd lain in bed, her mind filled with thoughts about their dinner, and she's sure she'd fallen asleep smiling. It was only when Malcolm had spoken to her that the idea of she and Harry – in a _relationship_ – had frightened her like not even Angela Wells with a bomb in her bag had frightened her.

And her reasons for pushing Harry away, and turning down his second dinner invitation had not made sense – even to her – until now. Now …... well, now she's being absolutely honest with herself, she feels foolish.

Poor Harry. He must think her quite mad. And she can't wait to talk about it to him …... that is, if he hasn't already decided she's not worth the trouble, and she couldn't blame him if he had. Harry could have anyone he wanted. She's still not sure why he seems to want her.

Maybe it was the thrill of the chase …... although, to be honest, he'd not had to run very fast, if at all. She'd not played hard-to-get …... at least …... not until _after_ they'd been to dinner together. Then ... then, everything was different. Then, others were seeing she and Harry as a ... _couple_.

Perhaps it was her naiveté. She'd had to challenge him on that one. After all, a man of Harry's age may enjoy beginning again with someone who has not the worldly experiences of his previous partners.

Ruth is also aware that she's thinking of Harry in past tense, as though she has already thrown away any chance she may have had with him.

Entering her house, she turns the gas heater in the living room on to low, chiefly to take the chill off the air inside her house. Her cats wind themselves around her legs, meowing in that complaining tone they use when she arrives home after their dinner time. By the time she feeds the cats, and then opens a can of soup for herself, heats it on the cooker top, and toasts and butters two slices of bread, she has devised a plan.

It is not the most original of plans, but her instincts tell her that the time for originality is fast running out. She senses something in the air – something brewing – which requires urgency and clear thinking on her part. She senses that she may not have the luxury of time for formulating a long and elaborate plan.

Which is why, after she places the last of her dishes on to the dish drying rack, she takes out her phone, and dials Harry's number.

"What …. _now_?" he asks, sounding annoyed. "Does it have to be now?"

"It doesn't have to be, but I think it should."

"Is there …... something wrong, Ruth?"

"In a way, yes, but not in the way you're thinking."

"And how is it I'm thinking, exactly?"

"That my washer has broken, or the ceiling has collapsed."

"No, Ruth. That's not what I was thinking. I was thinking …... oh, never mind." Ruth hears him sighing heavily, as he does when he's tired and fed up. "I'll be there in half an hour."

* * *

By the time Ruth hears the knock on the door, her cats are curled up contentedly in front of the fire (from where they will not – under any circumstances, barring the threat of incineration, or the offer of more food – be coaxed into moving), and she has made a fresh pot of tea, and has arranged some chocolate biscuits on a plate.

"So, what's the emergency?" Harry asks, from where he sits on Ruth's sofa, while she pours them each a cup of tea.

"I can't remember using the word `emergency'."

"Alright, I'll grant you that, Ruth. What's so important?"

Funny that.

"It's …..." _It's what? It's daft, that's what it is! It's self-indulgent, and it's daft._

"What, Ruth? What was so important that you needed me here to tell me about it?"

Ruth looks up to see his eyes on her. They are soft and warm. He is not annoyed. He is not angry. He is open and not judging.

_Not yet, anyway._

Ruth notices that Harry is wearing the same clothes he'd worn to work that day, but without the tie or the jacket. He seems more approachable, as he had the night they'd had dinner together.

"It's about your asking me to have dinner again."

He says nothing. He just watches her closely. What Ruth doesn't know is that he is barely breathing, willing her to say what he hopes she is about to say.

"When I turned you down …... I believe you were disappointed by my decision …..."

Harry nods slowly. _Disappointed. Sad. Angry. Hurt. Bewildered._

"I …... the way I reacted was the way I react whenever something I want is on offer. Outside work, that is. I never have difficulty in accepting work opportunities. But work is …... different. It's not personal."

Ruth is looking down at her hands, which are turning her tea cup around and around. She cannot look at Harry. What if she is boring him? What if he's already moved on?

"What are you saying, Ruth?"

She looks up to see Harry leaning forward on the sofa, his hands clasped between his knees. His face is soft, his eyes kind. There sits a man who has not moved on.

"I'm saying …... that the fear of others' gossiping was just …... an excuse. Had Malcolm not mentioned how happy he was for us, I would have found some other reason …..."

"What did you want to say?"

She places her cup on the small table beside the armchair, and then sits up straight, and looks Harry in the eye. His gaze is almost too much, too powerful for her, but she is determined to return his gaze in an honest manner.

"I wanted to say yes, but …... I can't, you see. And now I know why."

"Is this why you wanted me here, Ruth? To tell me why?"

She nods without speaking. Actions are so much less troublesome than words. Words often lead her to saying things she doesn't mean.

"It's …... I take it you've read my personnel file."

"I have, Ruth. In fact, I've read it more than once."

"So …... you know that my father died when I was eleven."

Harry nods, his eyes never leaving hers.

"There's more to it."

Harry nods again.

"He died from cancer. Of the stomach. It was a very aggressive form of cancer. Just before my eleventh birthday, I got out of bed one night after hearing a noise outside my bedroom door. I opened the door to see my Dad crawling – on all fours – along the passageway on his way to the toilet." Ruth is no longer looking at Harry, but at her own hands, which are moving compulsively, one against the other. "I could see the pain in his face, as he struggled along the floor. I was about to say something when he looked up and saw me. He lifted one hand from the floor, and put his finger across his lips in a `Shhh' gesture. It was three months later that he was diagnosed, and five months after that that he died. When he died, I wondered had I caused his death by not telling anyone what I'd seen that night. Maybe ... had I spoken up, the cancer might have been caught early enough to save his life." Ruth briefly looks up at Harry to see him looking at her kindly, and with compassion. "You're the first person to whom I've ever spoken about this, Harry. I never even told my mother."

"I'm honoured that you told me, Ruth." Harry wants desperately to move closer to her, and to touch her, and comfort her, but he suspects her story is not yet over.

"There's more," she says, again looking at her fingers, which wind around each other in a continuing loop. "After my father's death, my mother sent me away to school, and I …... and …... tonight as I got off the bus, it all made sense." Ruth pulls her hands apart, and slides them under her thighs, so that she is sitting on them.

"Tell me, Ruth. I'm listening." Harry's voice is very soft.

"What I can see now is that …... well, firstly, I didn't kill my father. He hadn't wanted to worry my mother, which is why he asked me to be quiet when I saw him crawling along the floor that night. Me not telling anyone about what I saw was just a child obeying her father."

Harry is momentarily annoyed with Ruth's father for burdening a child with such a secret.

"I …... I've believed that if I get what I want …... if I have the people I want in my life, then they'll be taken from me. Worse than that, my association with them will probably lead to them dying or getting sick …... and my punishment will be that I will then be sent away."

"So you took yourself from me before anything bad happened to me. By turning down my second invitation to dinner, you were punishing yourself …... just in case. Is that what you're saying, Ruth?"

Harry slides along the sofa until he is within touching distance of Ruth, but he doesn't attempt to touch her. Now he is closer to her, he can see the tears building in her eyes. She watches him as he moves closer, and she slowly nods.

"Do you have tissues, Ruth?"

"Kitchen," she says, before she wipes her eyes with the back of one hand.

Harry gets up, and heads through the door to Ruth's kitchen. He spies a tissue box on the counter near the cooker. He grabs the box, and heads back into the sitting room, where he sits on the arm of the sofa, and places the box of tissues on the coffee table, close to Ruth. He then sits with his hands resting on his knees, and gives her time and space in which to cry – almost silently - and then wipe her eyes and nose.

If Harry hadn't loved this woman before, he certainly does now. It all makes sense, and best of all, Ruth wants him. His instincts had not been wrong. She cares for him. She wants to be with him.

To occupy his hands and his thoughts, Harry takes both their tea cups, and heads to the kitchen, emptying their tea into the sink, and rinsing the cups under the tap. Holding the cups under running hot water gives him time for taking a few deep breaths.

"Perhaps we could do with something stronger," Ruth says from behind him, and he almost jumps with surprise. "There's a bottle in the top cupboard next to the cooker, and the glasses are in the cupboard next to that."

Harry leaves the cups beside the sink, and retrieves the whiskey bottle, and two glasses. When he turns, he finds Ruth sitting on a chair at the table. He pours them each a generous measure, and passes her glass across the table to her.

"What should we drink to, Harry? We should drink to something."

He watches her for a moment, and sees that, despite the puffiness around her eyes, she is smiling.

"What would you like to drink to?" he asks gently, as he lowers himself on to a chair.

"Nicely deflected, but I want to know what _you_ think."

Harry sighs as he thinks quickly. He looks down at his glass, and rubs the fingers of one hand up and down the sides of the glass. _Think, Harry …... what can we drink to which will not have her changing her mind about this …... about us?_ He is beginning to internally panic, when Ruth speaks.

"It's alright to drink to us. I'm happy with that."

He lifts his eyes to hers, and then he lifts his glass. "To us, Ruth," he says, his voice barely more than a whisper.

Ruth replies by lifting her glass towards him. The table is too wide for them to be touching glasses. "To us. May we …..."

"May we be able to begin again, Ruth."

"Here's to us …... and new beginnings."

They each take their first sip of their whiskey, whilst watching the other over the rim of their glass. When they place their glasses back on the table, they each drop their eyes.

_This is such hard work_, he thinks.

_Can't he figure out what I'm asking him to do?_ She thinks.

"Ruth," Harry says quietly, his eyes again seeking out her gaze. "I should be going home. It's late, and I shouldn't have any more to drink."

"Not until you've done one more thing."

Harry's eyes open wide, as his face registers shock. "_Ruth_ -"

"I don't mean _that_, Harry. Isn't there something you want to ask me?"

"Oh …... _that._ Of course." Harry smiles in embarrassment. "Would you have dinner with me? I'd like to -"

"Yes, I'd love to have dinner with you. When?"

"I …... I hadn't thought that far ahead. When would you like -?"

"I'd like to go tonight, but it's already too late, so …..."

"Tomorrow night, Ruth? Would you like to have dinner with me tomorrow night?"

"That would be lovely. I'd like that."

Harry decides he'd best leave. It is late, and he is tired. Progress has been made, and now they both need to sleep on it.

* * *

Ruth opens the front door, and Harry stands close beside her. She can feel his eyes on her.

Will she?

Should she?

_Yes, but what do you _want_, Ruth?_

That's easy, isn't it? How much easier would her life have been had she gone after everything she'd ever wanted?

Ruth lifts her face to Harry, and he is in no doubt about what it is she wants. He reaches down, and places his hands lightly on her waist, and then meets her lips with his in a soft kiss. There is almost no passion in the kiss, but the level of promise is immeasurable, and so by the time the kiss ends, they are both looking forward to the next evening.

Harry has taken a few steps down the path before he stops and turns around, to see her standing with the door open, watching him, her eyes large and dark in the moonlight.

"You meant that, didn't you, Ruth?" he says, standing statue still as he waits for her answer.

"Yes, Harry. I meant every word."

He smiles and nods, and then turns towards the gate. When he reaches his car, he stops, and watches her for a moment, before he opens the car door, and climbs inside.

From her front doorway, Ruth watches Harry drive away until all she can see are tail lights. She closes the door, locks it, and then leans her forehead against the door, her face wreathed in a smile of relief and anticipation.

Tomorrow night they are beginning again.

* * *

_** A/N: And the story of the child being silenced by the sick parent crawling along the floor is from RL, but not mine. The child in question grew up to have massive difficulties - beginning with alcoholism, and spiralling from there. I think that Ruth got off lightly by comparison.**_


End file.
